Panic? What do you mean panic? Shawna’s hands asked incredulously.
Just make sure and stay close to me until you get your weapons! Dormael signed back. Shawna nodded, and Dormael scooted backwards down the slope a bit to get back out of sight. Shawna followed him.
It had been a long while since Dormael had taken this particular form. He would have to be careful, as it was an incredibly strong essence to try and control, and he was out of practice with it. He glanced once at Shawna, and she nodded as if to say she was ready. Dormael opened his Kai.
He felt the rushing torrent of power as he always did when he was connected to the magic. He felt the timeless force linking him to everything around him like an endless melody playing through the bonds that held the smallest particles of life together. He fixed the image he wanted firmly in his mind and fed the magic slowly into himself.
The experience of changing forms was always a bit disconcerting, but Dormael had performed the trick countless times and met it as an old friend. He forced himself to relax mentally as he felt muscles twinge, stretch and rewind themselves into new positions. Bones shifted and postured themselves through the sinew, forming anew. Teeth retracted and changed, pushing through his gums to their new places in his maw.
It all happened in a matter of seconds, and in Dormael’s place sat a five-hundred-pound lion. Muscles rippled menacingly under a magnificent, golden-brown coat of fur as Dormael stretched his new limbs, spreading dark claws that hooked into tips that were as sharp as any dagger. He shook his huge head, sending his considerable reddish-brown mane into waves around his neck and shoulders.
Dormael looked at Shawna, who still crouched beside him. Her mouth was frozen in a mask of fear and awe as she gazed back at the great beast that was her friend. Dormael could smell the sheen of terror sweat that had beaded upon her wet skin, and he resisted the urge to roar and pounce on the puny creature before him. Dormael wrested control away from the essence of the lion, and made himself look toward the rock at the crest of the hill.
Corded muscles tensed as he leapt atop the boulder, and took in the scene below. The two men were closer to D’Jenn now, who had begun backing up the hill to try and gain the high ground. Dormael smelled the fear of the man things below him, the strange tang of their oiled steel and leather, and the gamy horseflesh as well.
Dormael smelled meat.
Throwing back his great head, he gave a bellowing roar into the cold air. Horses screamed in horror and men shouted in alarm, gesturing wildly at him. Dormael bounded from the boulder and threw up clods of wet dirt as he barreled down the hill at the two men on foot. Horses scattered as the men atop them tried desperately to get them under control, but though the horses had never encountered a beast as magnificent as Dormael, they knew a predator when they saw one. Men were thrown from the saddle or dragged along as the horses beneath them reared and bolted for their lives. Dormael roared again in exultation.
The chase was on.
He didn’t see Shawna rushing along behind him, nor did he notice D’Jenn and Bethany ducking as he soared over them in one great leap. He saw the back of one of the men afoot as he had turned to run, but he couldn’t match the speed and prowess of Dormael the lion. Dormael pinned the pitiful creature beneath him as five hundred pounds of angry lion crashed into the armored Cultist. Claws scraped against the steel of the man’s armor as they searched for purchase in his soft flesh, and the man gave a wailing cry of pain as Dormael’s teeth sank into back of his neck and jerked violently, silencing him forever. Dormael tasted his salty blood and ripped a bit of flesh from the man’s body, looking over at the second man who stood frozen before him.
Too late the man raised his sword to fend off the great lion, but one swipe from a paw as big as a dinner plate opened his throat, spilling his life’s blood through the rent left in the wake of his hooked claws. Gore splattered over the front of the man’s surcoat and across the wet ground, and Dormael roared again, reveling in the kill. No one would stand before him! This was his land, his hunt!
A whinny issued from his right side, and Dormael turned his predator gaze toward another man struggling to get a horse under control and aim a crossbow at him. The horse would make a good meal, and he didn’t enjoy the taste of the man things and their steel. He crouched low to the ground and moved toward the large animal, tensing for the pounce that would bring the beast down.
Suddenly Shawna was there, running her sword into the man’s hip and up into his torso. Dormael blinked and hurriedly cleared the essence of the great lion from his head, trying to keep his mind from sinking any deeper into the nature of the feline, predatory beast. It was a near thing for a moment, Dormael wanting to cheer for Shawna and pounce on her in equal turns as his mind came back into control. Finally, he sat back on his haunches and reestablished his dominance over the lion’s spirit. He fed the magic into himself once more, and slid back into his own skin.
Dormael crouched there on the wet grass for a moment, shaking with anxiety and revulsion. He could still taste the man’s blood in his mouth, and indeed some of it was still splattered across his face and on his chest. He didn’t even want to think about the bit of meat he had ripped out of the Cultist and what he had done with it. He breathed deeply and tried to banish the thought from his mind.
He was dimly aware of Shawna pulling him to his feet and pushing his staff into his hands, of D’Jenn rushing past him and tossing a water skin in his direction as he headed for Mist. He took a long pull from the sloshing bag of water and spat it onto the ground, hypnotized for a moment by the red color of it. Cool hands were shaking his shoulders.
“Dormael!” Shawna shouted, breaking his spell of confusion. He looked up at her. “Stay here and protect Bethany, we’re going after the rest of them!” Dormael nodded grimly, and Shawna looked as if she were about to say more, but instead she nodded back and finished buckling on her swords as she turned toward Charlotte and mounted up. D’Jenn snapped his reins and together, he and Shawna galloped off in pursuit of the remaining Cultists.
Dormael surveyed the bloody scene that he had wrought. One Cultist lay on his face, claw marks rending his cloak along his back and his head twisted at an odd angle. There was a bloody mess where his neck had been and a great pool of blood had spread from the wound. Another lay near to him in a heap, his own neck ripped to shreds in a gory mess. The third man, the one Shawna had killed, hung from his saddle by one of his legs caught in a stirrup, and his horse was shying away from him, dragging his body around in a circle in an effort to get free. Dormael shuddered at the gruesomeness of the scene, and for a moment he almost vomited.
He felt Bethany’s hand tug at the waist of his leather pants, and he looked down into her face. She regarded him with a solemn expression, her eyes a deep emerald-green today. He was always fascinated by the way her eyes changed colors. He’d never seen the trait before in another person. She took a deep, serious breath.
“I know you didn’t mean it,” she comforted, gesturing at the bodies lying haphazardly around the camp, “You were only trying to protect us.” Dormael smiled warmly as her words seemed to wash most of his guilt away. The child always had a way with him; she could always make him smile. He picked her up into a delicate embrace and placed a small kiss on her forehead.
“Thanks dear,” he said, and looked again around the camp.
“They’re starting to smell though,” Bethany said, covering her nose and giving him a meaningful glance.
“Right,” Dormael laughed. He sat Bethany back on her feet and went to the task of cleaning up.
****
D’Jenn held his spiked mace across the front of his saddle, resting it in front of the horn and gripping the reins in his other, gauntleted hand. Mist’s muscles surged beneath him as the horse ran around the base of a hill near their camp, and D’Jenn leaned easily into the turn with the grace of a practiced horseman. Shawna came behind him on Charlotte, one sword held aloft and the other still in its sheath so sh
e could control the horse with her own reins. Her fiery hair blew out behind her, making her seem the visage of some goddess of war.
The Cultists had left a trail of frayed earth in their wake, their horses’ hooves tearing into the wet dirt in their efforts to escape Dormael in his lion form. D’Jenn still was a little taken aback at what had happened. All had seemed lost, and the next thing he knew the great beast was there, leaping over him and tearing into the enemy. The only thing that had clued him in to the fact that it had been Dormael was Shawna running down the hill after the beast. It had been quite the display.
Rounding the corner, D’Jenn and Shawna found themselves on the top of a small dip in the terrain. D’Jenn slowed a bit and rode across the lip, following the trail with his eyes as it went into the draw and around the edge of a spur that jutted out into the low valley. A small gurgling creek ran through the draw; this area was crisscrossed by such creeks and dotted with small ponds and lakes that fed the great river they had crossed earlier in the day. D’Jenn motioned Shawna up closer to him.
“They could be trying to hide by taking the lower channels through the land here,” D’Jenn commented, “Most people would go to the high ground immediately. Since they didn’t head straight back to the road, I’m thinking that they’re either coming back, or setting an ambush knowing that we’d chase them down.”
“Ambush,” Shawna agreed, “They know that we wouldn’t want to leave them behind us so that they could chase us or ambush us at their leisure.”
“So they probably got over their fear of the lion once they were out of sight, and realized that a change of tactics was in order. It may have taken them a few moments to get their mounts under control, but once that was done I’ll bet they started looking for a good spot to set a trap,” D’Jenn added.
“A good spot like that one there?” Shawna said wryly, indicating where the trail headed around the spur of land and into what seemed to be an even deeper draw with concave slopes on either side.
“Yes,” D’Jenn agreed, and started to dismount. Shawna shot him a questioning glance but she stepped down from her saddle as well. “Our horses aren’t trained war mounts like theirs. They won’t be much good in a fight, especially in hilly terrain such as this. We’ll climb the near hill there and see what they have in store for us.” Shawna nodded and hobbled Charlotte, following D’Jenn’s example.
The two of them skipped lightly down into the draw and across the stream and the trail of the Cultists. They climbed slowly and methodically, placing their feet with care on the wet and slippery slope. After a minute they came near the top of the hill, and D’Jenn lowered himself into a crouch and began picking his way along quietly. At the top, the two got down on their bellies and crawled over the hill, looking down the slope and across the small valley to try and spot the potential ambush. Coming a little down the slope, D’Jenn spotted the backs of two Cultists as they crouched behind a large rock. They were gazing intently into the draw, waiting on the pursuit to come along the expected path. Two large, wooden crossbows rested against the boulder next to the men. That left one, who would most likely be on the other side, probably also with one of those damnable crossbows.
Shawna looked to D’Jenn as if to ask him if he had seen them, and he nodded sharply once in response. D’Jenn put his legs underneath him and rose slowly into a crouch, gripping his spiked mace tightly in his right hand and waiting for Shawna to rise with him. When she was ready, D’Jenn gestured towards the waiting men with his mace, and rushed silently down the hill.
The Cultists turned at the noise that D’Jenn’s and Shawna’s boots made as they raced headlong down the slope at them. Cursing, the one on the left went for his crossbow, but it was too late. D’Jenn’s mace came back and downward in a terrible arc, crushing into the man’s face with a sickening wet cracking noise. D’Jenn’s rush carried him into the man, and the two of them toppled together over the face of the rock and came slowly to a sliding halt a little down the hill.
The other Cultist had been a bit smarter, and instead of reaching for the unwieldy bow, he had ripped his short sword from his belt sheath. He met Shawna’s initial attack head on, turning her blade to the side with his own, but Shawna’s foot came up like a striking snake and slammed into his face, breaking his nose and splattering a little blood over his mouth. He stumbled backwards against the rock, and Shawna came on relentlessly, the momentum of her dash carrying her forward. She slashed at him again, but the man was quick enough to roll sideways. Her blade clanged and shot a spark into the air as it glanced off of the stone.
The two of them faced off for a second, trying to gauge what the other was going to do. Finally, the man thrust at Shawna , and she dodged sideways and shot a slash at the man’s eyes, but he was able to slip backwards and avoid the blow. She pressed her advantage and advanced, making the Cultist backpedal on the wet grass while desperately fending off her attacks. Realizing that he would fall if he didn’t stop retreating, the man reversed his motion and once again sent a straight thrust at the red-headed swordswoman. Shawna was ready for it this time.
She parried the thrust with her left blade, sending the man’s arm wide and leaving him open. His eyes widened with the terror of the knowledge that he was about to die. Shawna flowed seamlessly into her own thrust, and with a step forward she sank her right blade into the man’s throat. She felt the steel tip hit the bone inside his neck, and pulled it violently free so it wouldn’t stick. The man fell to his face.
Shawna felt something rush by her face, and heard a thump in the grass beside her. She glanced in that direction, tensed for another confrontation with adrenaline pumping through her veins, and saw a crossbow bolt buried in the dirt. Turning to look at the opposite slope, she saw another Cultist there winding his crossbow for another shot.
“D’Jenn! Bowman on the hill!” she shouted, rushing back to the cover of the boulder the Cultists had crouched behind. D’Jenn had regained his feet while she had dispatched her enemy, and he came over the rock in a cursing rush and settled his back against it in a crouch. Looking first at her, and then at the two crossbows leaning against the rock, D’Jenn smiled grimly.
“Do you know how to use one of these contraptions?” D’Jenn asked, picking up one of the crossbows and checking it over. The Cultists had loaded them, and he made sure that everything seemed to be in order with it before laying it across the top of the rock. He closed one eye and took aim with it, trying to line the Cultist up between the twin iron sights.
“I never learned archery,” Shawna confessed, but she picked up the other bow anyway.
“Now would be a good time to start learning,” D’Jenn said as a bolt clacked loudly off the face of the rock. Shawna grunted and hefted the crossbow, laying it across the rock as D’Jenn had done and trying her best to line up a shot.
D’Jenn sighted the Cultist through the circle and post iron sights that were mounted to the crossbow, and judged the range as best he could. Though he had never trained with a crossbow, all Sevenlander children were taught the art of archery at a young age, as hunting was held in high regard in their society. D’Jenn knew how to shoot as well as any Sevenlander, even if the contraption was a bit unfamiliar to him. He lined up his shot, took a deep breath and at the crest of it he held the air in and squeezed the trigger mechanism.
The bowstring twanged with the release of pressure and the bolt flew into the air. A split second after he loosed he heard Shawna’s own bow fire as well. The Cultist went to the ground in a heap. D’Jenn couldn’t determine who had hit him, but it didn’t matter as long as he was dead. Whether you swim or row, you still get across the river, as his father used to say.
D’Jenn and Shawna came from behind the rock together and picked their way down the steep sides of the slope. As they came to the bottom of the small valley D’Jenn spotted the tracks of the Cultist’s horses once again, trailing along around the edge of the spur and out of sight.
“We’ll track down their horses so t
hat we can have remounts,” D’Jenn declared, breathing heavily from the effort of their scramble down the slope, “There’s no sense in leaving a good horse out here to fend for itself.”
“Agreed,” Shawna nodded, “I’ll go after the horses, and you deal with that last Cultist on the hill.”
“Let’s get it all done quickly,” D’Jenn said, “Hopefully Dormael will have broken camp by the time we get back so that we can leave this place behind before it gets too late.” Shawna nodded once in response and set off down into the low valley after the horses. D’Jenn looked up at the slope before him and swallowed his irritation at having to climb the hill.
Pain lanced into his left shoulder, bright and hot and as shocking as a dip into a winter pond. The force of the blow spun him around and he ended up with his face in the dirt and a new pang of sharp agony across the wound. He rolled quickly to his back, more of a reflex than anything else, and scooted around in a circle to try and find cover. Every time he moved his left arm tendrils of electric hurt shot down the appendage and across his chest, and his strength failed a bit on that side. He grunted in anger.
Shuffling to the shelter of a small boulder resting against the side of the hill, D’Jenn looked down at the crossbow bolt sticking out of his left shoulder muscle. Hot blood pooled in the fabric of his shirt but didn’t seem to be squirting, nor was his arm going numb or cold, which was a good sign. He guessed that the bolt had missed any major arteries and had simply shot straight through the muscle itself. The broad, sharp head of the missile had gone through his arm and stuck gleaming and bloody from the backside of his shoulder. He had been lucky.
Still, lucky or not, the bastard hurt like…well, like a crossbow bolt through the arm. D’Jenn couldn’t rightly compare it to anything else at the moment. He steadied his breathing and tried to shut the part of his brain off that was screaming out in pain. It helped a little, but no one could remove themselves completely from pain such as that.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 44